


Catch Me

by EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Chilton is the actual Chesapeake Ripper, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, French Toast, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, Hannibal is a little pretentious, He's in prison, M/M, Morning After, We visit him in Chapter 2, angsty in later chapters, cooking together, fluff shots, series of One-shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-16 07:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10566150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12/pseuds/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12
Summary: In which Frederick Chilton, the actual Chesapeake Ripper, is finally in custody, leaving Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter reeling from the end of a chase that's lasted years for them both. Together, they come to terms with the way things are, for them, as well as the world around them.Mostly a lot of fluff, some angst in later chapters.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for checking it out! Hope you enjoy! I have a soft spot for non-Cannibal Hannibal, so here is the result! Please R and R, let me know what you think!

Will blinked, eyes going instantly to the unfamiliar, analog alarm clock near his head that took a moment for him to decipher without his glasses. 6:30 in the morning, his usual waking time, but certainly not his usual waking place. He felt for his glasses, finding them easily on the nightstand.

His entire body felt relaxed, sunk down low in a bed that didn’t smell slightly of dog or fish, and  had sheets from a brand Will suspected were not sold at the local Wal-Mart. He turned to lay on his back, feeling the solid shape next to him stay completely still, unperturbed by his movements. He smiled at how his night had progressed: organically and with the design of a much more talented artist than he pictured himself to be. Perhaps that was because of the man lying beside him.

He was tempted to reach out a hand an push the fringe from Hannibal’s eyes, which remained tightly closed. He flushed a bit, eyes traveling across all of Hannibal’s body that he could see, most of it below his navel hidden by the rich brown comforter. He knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, but if he stayed lying here, he would certainly wake Hannibal, who had a trying enough week as it was.

He slipped quietly from the bed, the well-put structure of the house not letting in too much of the cool January air from outside, though he could see the swirled patterns of frost on the window as dawn started to hint at the far away horizon. He stumbled a bit, looking for his clothes, eventually finding his boxers, and a sweater that he was certain Hannibal wouldn’t mind him borrowing for a few minutes, and, with one last glance at the sleeping form behind him, now turned on his back, Will Graham headed downstairs.

The same stairs he and Hannibal had fumbled up the night before, Hannibal’s hands large and warm and strong as they held onto his thighs, lifting him around his waist. Will could remember reveling in it, his fingers undoing the buttons of Hannibal’s shirt in a hurried fever, his haste only making it more difficult and worthy of a joint laugh between them when he had almost conceded defeat. A laugh that was pressed between them, half-silenced by a kiss that burned with an unacknowledged fire and threatened to consume them both.

Will found himself, for the first time, alone in Hannibal’s rather large kitchen. It wasn’t that he was inept at cooking but with everything beholden of a sleek chrome finish, he couldn’t tell the oven from the dishwasher or the cabinets from the refrigerator. He sighed, glad Hannibal was still sleeping peacefully and wasn’t there to laugh at his incompetency.

Eventually, his snooping won him some success, and he managed to find the bread, and fresh fruit, and a coffee maker that, unlike the rest of the house, did not look like it could double as spy equipment or a dangerous weapon. Simple enough, it seemed to him, especially when some rummaging in the fridge and spice cabinet found him the rest of the ingredients and a pan for some basic French toast. Not anything like what the Master Chef upstairs might prepare, but he could do his best.

He wondered mildly if all of his moving items around and rummaging through the cabinets had woken Hannibal, who was yet to make an appearance. With a slightly devilish thought, he considered maybe the good doctor was just exhausted from their night together. He was quite unlike anyone Will had met. Not strictly in bed of course, though there was much to be said there, but in life in general.

For a man who spent so much of his life surrounded by death, Hannibal had breathed something new into him. Given him back those feelings he thought he had left behind in favor of pain, agony, betrayal, rage, primal instinct. With his clam voice, his quiet demeanor, his steady presence, he had allowed Will to simply be Will. For someone who spent all of his time being what his students needed, what Jack Crawford needed, what the Chesapeake Ripper had needed, it was a beautiful change of pace.

Will vaguely wondered if the butter he was using was butter that Hannibal had made himself, since it clearly did not come from a rapper. The image of Hannibal dressed as a pioneer woman, laboring over a butter churn made him laugh out loud to himself, pushing the little pat around the pan.

“I did not know French toast could be quite so entertaining.” Will turned rapidly, almost flipping the pan of hot butter to the floor as he did, his cheeks flushing. Hannibal stood there, leaning against his doorway, dressed in a pair of thin, drawstring pants and a red sweater Will could have sworn he had seen him wear before when he had come, unannounced, in the early hours of the morning. His hair, though not slicked back as normal, had been roughly pushed back into place, though the air of sleep still lingered over him as he smiled softly in Will’s direction.

That smile sent a small jolt through Will, who could remember seeing the exact one the night before, after they had collapsed back on Hannibal’s bed together, a tangle of limbs and heaving chests and shared confessions, when Hannibal had looked at him with eyes that had matched that softness. An odd look for the usually serene, somewhat expressionless man before him.

“You have never made it with me, then,” Will said defiantly, turning back to his toast, flipping it carefully, almost checking to see if Hannibal looked impressed. He doubted that a man who regularly made prosciutto roses and knew the finer points of making various Icelandic fish dishes would care much about his ability to flip half-cooked toast. But, then again, there had been several surprises Will had not been expecting from Hannibal, who moved now to take over the coffee-making that Will had abandoned.

“I look forward to the opportunity.” Hannibal responded, before pulling a package of beans and grinder from a cabinet Will had not even noticed, beginning to prepare them for the press. Will watched him in the most covert way he could manage, trying not to make it too obvious. It was amazing to see the change in Hannibal this morning, or perhaps it was the way he always was, and Will had been too stubborn to see it.

But Hannibal now, outside of his fancy suits and slick hair and Bentley, seemed far more human, far more approachable. Will watched his hands, long, thin fingers working carefully to brew the coffee that Will could feel himself needing now that his initial euphoria had worn off, and he was given flashbacks again to the night before of those fingers tracing his body all over, tracing every edge and muscle curve and scar that ran along his body until Will felt as though every blemish might be erased and he could wake a new man.

Perhaps Hannibal had changed, as he had, with the catching of the Ripper. A friend to them both, though Will was truly loathe to call Frederick Chilton anything but the monster he had turned out to be, and after it, he had seen Hannibal retract inwardly for a time. Away from Jack, away from Alana, away from Will. But then, as they continued their conversations, the threat of the Ripper locked inside the Baltimore State Hospital, Will could feel the change between them. More causal. Truly friends, not the ramblings of a haunted man and a psychiatrist who could do little to help him.

He might have noticed the changes between them then, but these physical changes, the looseness of Hannibal’s shoulder, the more frequent touching of his hands to Will, even the more frequent smiles, even at things that remained only inside of his own head, were new to him. A beautiful new, but new nonetheless.

“How do you find anything in this kitchen?” Will asked, breaking the comfortable silence as he added more toast to the pan, now cooking at a steady pace. Hannibal blinked at him, smirking slightly. “I was looking for peanut butter for a good ten minutes before I gave up.”

“It is in the refrigerator.” Hannibal pointed, reaching into another cabinet to extract two coffee mugs, catching the home coffee that now filled the kitchen with its scent, swirling with that of the cinnamon off the toast.

Will opened the door of the fridge nearest him, rifling through containers, looking for a familiar jar. Instead, he found a sealed tub of what certainly resembled peanut butter, but was obviously homemade. He stared at it, “Well,” He said, laughing a bit, “I was just looking for a jar of Jif.” He looked over to Hannibal, who was trying to hide the affronted look on his face, and swiftly put the container back. Perhaps peanut butter on his toast was not the best idea this morning, anyway.

“If you don’t need help with the toast, I will take the coffee to the dining room and wait for your company in there.” Hannibal said, and, at a lack of protest, took both mugs into his waiting table. Will let out a breath as soon as he was gone, still not quite believing this. He had never had a morning after unexpected sex goes this well. Never had he had companionable silence, only awkward questions about later meet-ups that never happened, or scrambling for clothes while trying to wash the taste of Brandy form his mouth or perfume or cologne from his skin. Not French toast, not fresh coffee, not breakfast together while he wore someone else’s sweater.

The toast finished quickly, and he noticed the small bottle of syrup Hannibal must have gotten out while he was looking for peanut butter. He stacked some of the fruit on the plates, drizzled the toast lightly with the syrup, taking a moment to admire his own presentation. Much more appealing than the blackened fish he typically cooked, nowhere near as presentational as any dish Hannibal had ever presented, some of which had names he could thankfully understand from his years of studying French, and some of which he had never seen or heard of before in his 30 -odd years of life.

He found Hannibal sitting in his usual seat, looking out the window as the softly swirling snow that promised at more to come as the sky grew from rich purple into pale gray. “It smells delicious.” He said, and Will realized again how much he enjoyed Hannibal’s accent, the man lingering over thick s sounds. “I did not realize you liked to cook, Will.” Also his name, he enjoyed hearing his name.

“Something you learn, after years of being alone.” He felt his face flush. He had meant to say single, not alone. Leave it to him to have a Freudian slip over French toast.

Hannibal turned then, but it seemed to only be to take his fork in his hand, cutting off a corner of the toast. “I understand the feeling.” He lifted the bite to his lips, taking it between them and chewing with a genuine smile. “Though I think it may now be safe to say neither of us are alone, at least not at this moment.”

“No.” Will agreed, taking his own bite of toast, almost wishing he had thought to dig out some bacon from Hannibal’s stores to go with the toast, though watching Hannibal’s lips close around part of a strawberry was its own reward.

“Do you want to talk about last night, Will?”

“Is there anything to talk about, Hannibal?” It felt nice, to say his first name. He had certainly said it often enough a few hours ago, but to say it in the full light of morning, sipping coffee he had made him, was an entirely different taste.

“I only want to make sure that you are not feeling…” But he seemed at a loss for words. Will understood.

“I don’t regret it.” Will said. “If I did, you’d be making your own French toast, and I’d be wearing a much cheaper sweater.”

Hannibal laughed, an uncommon, almost nervously sweet sound, his strange smile settling on his face. “Perhaps next time, I will wear some of your…flannel.” He said the word as if it were slightly toxic and  Will laughed again, almost spitting out his coffee. The implication of a next time wasn’t lost on him, but he, for once, carried their conversation elsewhere.

Away from Jack, away from death, away from them, and to each other. He was awarded a brief glimpse into Hannibal’s life before Will had known him, learning how much he had genuinely enjoyed medical school, about his time working rotations in both pediatrics and pediatric psychology, a field that held little interest to him now. Hannibal learned about some of Will’s fishing exploits, and the story behind his acquiring of each of his seven canine companions, though Winston’s was, by far, the most interesting.

The conversation carried through dishwashing and packing up the food, Will giggling again as he packed away the butter, earning a strange look of confusion from Hannibal, who didn’t ask. And it carried again to Hannibal’s living room, where the couch permitted a new kind of closeness that the table had prevented. And then again to Hannibal’s bedroom, where Will was thankful the cold swirling outside couldn’t breach as Hannibal’s warm sweater was peeled from him, replaced by warm hands and soft lips.


	2. Chapter 2

There were times that Will could see Hannibal grow stiff with something that on anyone else would have looked like fear. On Hannibal, it looked more like indignation, ignited perhaps by the loud gum chewing done by the orderly that was patting them down before they were allowed access to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He resisted the urge to smile at bit as Hannibal re-brushed his plaid suit into perfect flatness against his chest where the woman had ruffled it slightly.

“Stay behind the lines if you don’t want to get pissed on.” Again, with the indignant frown, this one that did make Will smile to a raised eyebrow and loud gum smack from the nurse. “He’s the third one down. Real piece of work.”

“Thank you.” Hannibal said, giving her a slight bow despite everything that had happened. He was easy enough to find, there were only so many places people could go trapped inside stone walls. Physically, at least. And Frederick Chilton was no exception.

Will instantly chastised himself for thinking his name. He was the Chesapeake Ripper, regardless of whatever their previous relationship had been, whether they had ever truly been friends or anything else, was unimportant and in the past, and the man that now looked at him was, unlike most people, exactly what he had been classified by Freddie Lounds. A monster.

One who had tried to severely hurt the man beside him, who was pressed almost stiffly to Will’s side as they came to stand together in front of his cage. He had tried, in vain, to frame Hannibal for his murders but had underestimated Hannibal as it seemed that many people had. Hannibal hadn’t been able to overpower him, but he had been able to fight Chilton long enough until Jack had arrived, followed shortly by an ambulance.

Long months of drawn out trial, testimony of both Hannibal and Will had finally severed their connection from him. They had walked away…damaged.

“Of all the people to come see, I must say,” He voice grated on Will’s nerves like ice. “I didn’t expect the two of you.”

Will felt Hannibal unconsciously press into him, a glance at his face showing no change in emotion rather than his pressing against him in a bid for comfort. “Is there something I can help you with?” Chilton’s accent was the same thick, pretentious one that it had always been. Different enough to try and make him sound interesting to a passerby, always trying to garner attention to himself. Will supposed, with a sick turn in his stomach, that it had worked.

“We simply needed to come and speak with you, Frederick.” Hannibal said, his voice as flat as always. “There have been questions regarding your therapy, and Alana asked me to speak with you.”

“And you couldn’t come to see me by yourself.” Chilton’s eyes were wide with some sort of sadistic enjoyment. Will could feel his fists tightening. He had almost killed Hannibal, let alone with the attempt to frame him for countless gruesome murders. Will felt Hannibal stiffen beside him, only slightly. Either Chilton’s words didn’t carry the same weight Chilton wanted them to, or Hannibal knew what to expect.

“I am not here for you to manipulate, Frederick.” The name rolled stiffly off of Hannibal’s tongue, “The time for that is past.”

“Manipulation would be unethical,” Frederick said innocently, and Will was tempted to pull his gun out of his holster and blast the smirk off of Chilton’s face. The entire debacle with Abel Gideon came to mind, a series of incidents that had almost cost Hannibal, Alana, and even Frederick their lives. Even in his hard bench chair, Chilton leaned on the bars for support where Gideon had ripped out a couple of unnecessary organs before they had found him. Both a psychopath and victim in his own right, it was only Will, who had managed to sway the others, who had seen Gideon was not the true ripper. Chilton’s plan had failed, but it was only the first in a series of schemes that were born of convenience of working with someone like Hannibal and having to deal for the first time with someone like Will. The thought was disgusting in itself.

“I cannot help you if we cannot have a conversation.” Hannibal said, now stepping around Will to face Chilton directly.

“Dr. Bloom seems to think I’m beyond help.” Another humorless laugh. “I suppose my lawyer agrees with her. I get nothing from speaking with you.”

“You have a chance for redemption, Frederick.” Hannibal said softly, but Will realized from the vicious smile on Chilton’s face that now was not the time to speak to him effectively. This would do northing but hurt them both.

“We’ll be back another time.” Will said, laying his hand on Hannibal’s arm, who had fixed Frederick Chilton in a hard stare that the man was seemingly loathe to return. Even with all of his issues with empathy, it was difficult for Will to understand what was going through Hannibal’s mind sometimes, there were too many layers, carefully constructed, that he had to chip away at. Bedelia du Maurier had hinted at such, when Hannibal had still been a suspect, and though parts of Will burned with curiosity at the thought, he had decided it best to let that information come to him organically.

But after a moment, Hannibal followed behind him, shoes clicking over the distinct noise of a short, painfully dry laugh behind them.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

Will watched Hannibal cut celery with a ferocity unusual to his typical technique. “Soup?” Will asked. “Or salad?”

“Has my menu become this predictable?” Hannibal asked with a slight smile, looking up from his chopping. “Or did Alana get me the ‘Specials’ board she has been promising?”

“You’ve just made a lot of it lately.” Will replied with a small smile, “Celery is a good base for a lot of soups.”

“A basic white bean soup, with only a mix of Mexican spices.”

‘Doesn’t this usually have chorizo?” Will’s limited experience with cooking mostly had to do with restaurants. As the celery was added to a large bowl, it looked similar to a soup Will had gotten at the questionable Americanized Mexican restaurant in Wolf Trap.

“Yes.” Hannibal said, but will noticed the difference. Stiffer, almost throwing the knife into the sink in a rare show of anger.

“What’s wrong?” Will said. “I’m sure the soup will be fine without it…”

“It will be,” Hannibal agreed, wiping his hands with a towel, turned away from Will. He moved, but only back to the soup. “I have found it difficult, as of late, to eat meat.” He finally admitted quietly, stirring the pot.

Will could understand that. It was usually Hannibal that had the dinner parties, the guests over for his incredibly plated meals. But it was on occasion that Frederick would have them over, entertain them in his impeccably decorated white house. They all seemed to know the fact that at some point, they had been part of his monstrosity, but this was the first time anyone had spoken about it, at least to Will’s knowledge. He looked at the soup, refusing to let his own stomach turn at the thought.

“Well, lucky for you, I like soup.” Will was glad he wasn’t in charge of someone’s therapy, but his lighthearted comment seemed to be welcome to Hannibal who smiled in spite of himself.

“And I am always in want of good company to share it with.” Hannibal looked at him for the first time since he started cooking dinner. “I apologize if I have not been the best company tonight, Will. It seems our encounter with Frederick affected me more than I originally thought.”

The drive to Hannibal’s house had been quiet, that was true, but Will didn’t mind the silence. He did mind that he could practically feel the anger, distrust, betrayal, disgust, and concern all warring for Hannibal’s emotions, though there was little he could do about that. He would leave what he thought he couldn’t handle to Bedelia, but what he could do was take a step closer and sip heavily at his wine.

He could feel warmth radiating off Hannibal, a different warmth than what was rolling off the soup, stronger, and pooling in his stomach with thoughts he could bring up after dinner. For now, he hesitated. It wasn’t as if this was his best lot in life, knowing how to handle other people’s emotions on top of his own. How to separate them. To offer comfort. But despite his lavish lifestyle, Hannibal seemed somewhat low-maintenance. A man confident enough in himself to know when he actually needed help.

Will put a hand on his shoulder, watching steam curl up from the pot before he pressed his forehead to Hannibal’s shoulder. “You’re always great company.” He said, wondering if the wine was going to his head.

 


End file.
